Don’t Shoot–I’m Related To Bambi

So Saturday morning, I wake up, am half-asleep in the bathroom and I hear gunshots. I bolt into the living room, ask my husband–what is that?! Calmly over coffee and the newspaper he says it’s hunting season–day 1. He wonders why I’m so worked up over it. I expla

in, in L.A.–you hear gunshots and it’s not animals that are being hunting. The 7/11 has been robbed or someone’s after someone. Soon you’ll hear the helicopters flying over the valley in pursuit.

The ducks on our pond were unusually chatty yesterday. About 100 mallards were swimming and quaking, clearly shook up. Probably the shot heard through the Boise area was their buddy down by the river. I don’t like hunting. Never have. Never will. I buy my meat in from the butcher block and that’s worked for me for years.


We ended up taking a drive into the mountains yesterday and we found this little lady wandering among the leaves, muching on branches. I thought it was a deer. My husband told me it was a cow elk. What do I know? I just thought she was cute.

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